Best Ladles Poems
Ten is the number to begin
Early in the garden
Gathering herbs, foxglove and more
On her face casual grin
Nine are the ingredients here
Placed in beef stew to simmer
It will be tender, succulent
For his eye will grow dimmer
Eight minutes sear the stew beef
Add some herbs like lemon thyme
Pour in beef broth to simmer down
Let it stew half a day's time
Seven is the count to cook some rice
A soft bed to nestle
Colors a great contrast appeal
Beauty, aroma will settle
Six add carrots, red and green peppers
The slow simmer, leaves crunch
Perfect in shape, color and taste
He will munch, munch, and munch
Five memories of his abuse
Threats, terror, and betrayal
Guns pointed to head even loaded
To public opposite portrayal
Four ladles of stew removed
Add some oleander
To stew on range, and let simmer
Stir the pot, leaves meander
Three flowers from pretty foxglove
Maybe this stew he'll love
Hear his truck come down the drive
Everything's quiet even dove
Two ladles served upon white rice
Her's prepared set aside
Upon a plate over white rice
Stew served that she contrived
One ambulance pulls quietly away
Rushing to hospital
Entirely too late to save the day
A crime? Really Committal?
I watch TV crime stories..LOL
Categories:
ladles, betrayal, death, fear, murder,
Form:
Rhyme
Hamilton, Ontario,
Is a steel making town.
You can hardly tell it,
When the sun goes down.
The slagpiles glow as the big furnace throws,
Another batch of ore.
Big ingots sit on the railway cars,
Behind the big steel doors.
They call this place DeFasco
One of the largest in the land.
It has dirty little secrets,
Buried in the sand.
Something happened one autumn night.
I'd heard the older men tell.
The shift boss heard someone screaming.
It came from the bowels of hell.
A father and son were working,
Breaking slag from a big ladles spout.
The young man couldn't get out of the way.
When the molten metal poured out.
The molten metal mixed with the mud,
To make a sticky muck.
By the time the father turned around.
He saw his son was stuck.
The boys workboots were on fire.
As he was buried to his knees.
Even his asbestos clothing ignited.
He begged to his father,"Please,"
"Put me out of my misery,
I know my days are done."
His father pushed him under the slag.
He killed his only son.
They found the old man later that night,
Running circles in the rain.
They say he never spoke another word.
They say he'd gone insane.
Sometimes during my coffee break,
I'll sit and I'll think a while.
I often find myself wondering.
Just what's under that pile.
They call the place DeFasco.
One of the largest in the land.
It has dirty little secrets,
Buried in the sand.
Note; I worked at the DeFasco Steel mill in the early nineties, and was told this story.
Categories:
ladles, on work and workingfather,
Form:
Verse
It was the Main Street hangout for the teenagers of its day.
For a nickel they could dream as they heard the jukebox play!
Wispy white metal chairs surrounded tables topped with glass.
(There were secluded booths where lads could woo their lass!)
From the tin covered ceiling hung a fan with its whirring blade,
And arrayed along the soda fountain were the tools of the trade.
Symmetric white and black tiles covered the spotless floor.
A gleaming steel and marble counter completed its bright decor!
Presiding over all was a guy oddly named the "soda jerk."
Clad in impeccable white, he took great pride in his work.
He was a wizard at his craft and when his sorcery was done,
He'd whipped up a heavenly treat that couldn't be outdone!
A Hamilton mixer, scoops and ladles were the tools of his trade.
In a trice he'd make a root beer float or some tasty lemonade,
Hot fudge sundae, banana split, soda or strawberry shake,
Cherry coke or any such concoction you'd ask him to make!
The "soda jerk" did his duties with consummate skill and grace,
Always with a ready quip and a contented smile upon his face.
Fast food joints or drive-ins today do not have that elegant flair,
That yesteryear's soda fountains and ice cream parlors had to share!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Categories:
ladles, nostalgia
Form:
Rhyme
Poetry often starts outside
of one's self – on a distant hill or near
greenhouse shelf; our-cultivations
as the consideration of a grafted rose
goes; the meandering, dripping of a stream
or nose; submerging of our toes in
chilling clarity – we see to the bottom,
sometimes fooled by depth –
or that of a winged flight, wingtips tossing
sparks of light, dipping and scooping
winged ladles of air, unseen but yet
we see them there, pouring out there,
back into our fanciful sky, our fanciful
eye -- in a heart's invested sigh -- up
high in the atmosphere, sighted unseen
spirit -- looking and listening for the echo
of angels -- turning us more inward, where
deeper observation and motion begins,
the pen is lifted, and the paper stained
finally, fondly into lyrical submission –
Categories:
ladles, humorous, hyperbole, imagery, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
Headwaters,
Of the world’s flowing souls,
Cresting to flight and misting rainbows.
Everyone.
Searching for another.
To endure sacrifices behold,
Cascading
Heart’s ladles dip into
Basins of memories in plunge pools.
Waterfalls,
From the rapids of youth,
To the flat waters of golden years
----------------------------------------------
Contest: Some Form of Crystalline
Form: Verse : Parallelogram de Crystalline
11.02.14
----------------------------------------------
Received an NA in the above contest.
Entered in Edward Ebbs's contest: Only for those NA's on 01.23.16
The contest calls for an explanation of what the poem means to the author:
This poem is a summary of life.
Headwaters=birth,
Cresting=growing up,
misting=your effect on others and the world,
'searching for another'=could be spouse, money, God, or just yourself, etc,
Sacrifices=what you traded for what you wanted,
cascading=life, time goes by so fast
Once you reach old age, hopefully your waters are calm (flat), and not still turbulent or made turbulent due to regret from choices and the trades you made in youth.
Categories:
ladles, love, metaphor, relationship, river,
Form:
Verse
Darkness carves night from day's glare with a half moon
smile under star-studded eyes. Faces glow as silver spoon
ladles the rapture of Venus. Fly Golden flames! Shower
the horizon before stars fall, languishing too soon.
Behold, the glory! Applaud the gallant trail of pewter
in wide-eyed dreams. Dancing in shadows, the suitor
from silver screen projects shooting stars. Piercing
hearts of lovers, metal shines, a welcomed intruder.
Brand each beating heart with the reigning night! Fuse
with the goddess of love before stars fade from sight. Cruise
on blazing chariot through evanescence of passion's mist,
and memories of spirit sky shall set fire to our muse.
Categories:
ladles, fantasy, urdu, silver, stars,
Form:
Rubaiyat
Thumbs Up To The Journey
At the footbridge as it bridges past from present future and perspectives your
feet might be-come and may be-go confused be-fuddled as can your mind before
the shadows rainbows feathered fancy pastel tunes and blues-bound colours
can memories anticipation taking-stock ooze pots and lots of lived experience
re-scribed re-told rewound projected narrated from emotive thoughts
stand still
At the bridge as it cradles the canyon with ladles and measures of the moment
where it spans what once was what you enrich in here and now not there and then the sweeping meadows fields of harvest schisms unions paradigms evaluations can treasures scary scars letting-go liberate scents and stents of living fragrance perceived untold configured touched upon stocked up condensed
reflected wait
The past is yet to come and not withstanding what bridge which side what size
and whence long gone remembrance spins and spans and slows and speeds the motion the sunrise dusk and dawning tapestry mosaic photographic lens sensations can truth reality attitudes and imperfections find soul and solace shared solitude re-modelled shaped anew confronted soothed harmonised
accentuated rise
The future has arrived and has been long projected and the past is living on
where they settle and sizzle on in ember’s glory and ashes to ashes and Phoenix in flight when horizons and boxes un-boxed wriggling worms preceding grave graves can joy pleasure senses and sexes passion peace human works of art in progress accepted invited challenged unchallenged channelled welcomed
gratitude prevail
At the foot-bridge at the mind-bridge where it bridges cradles sweeps your meaning brushes and jungles juggles and wonders which hand’s intuition which path to follow lie the answers to the questions asked lie the questions known and
not yet explored
24th July 2016
Categories:
ladles, life, perspective,
Form:
Free verse
You’re in that special position you crochet yourself into when you hear me
coming up the steps , a whole breath between each plod of my
bare feet as they tackle the stairs with all the energy of an alpine climber,
day weary, the rewarding peak still somewhere beyond the mist.
I know you’ve been thinking of this since dinner, in between ladles of mascarpone,
bacon bits and spaghetti you asked at least 4 times if it was your turn tonight,
to which I always answered with profound insistence and a toothy smile that it was.
I know you only ask to stoke my interest, not that you need to.
And now we’re here, pink and blue sheets beneath us both, a spare pillow folded in half
to support your head as the story rolls out familiar, yet warm like the smell of muffins
from a sunlit kitchen on a cold afternoon, a bare branch dangling outside the window,
not unlike the hand you lean upon, your fingers spooling your hair as we go.
Regularly – when you think I’m not looking – I see you peek up to gather my reactions like
a squirrel gathers seeds put out for the cardinals when they think they’re alone, your eyes
clearly hoping to glean something of my day, even my life which I haven’t chosen to share,
two passengers on a train busy pretending they’re not reading each other’s newspapers.
All the while, the story bubbles on until it ends with a drop of tone and a soft clap
of the cover, you slide it to the edge of the bed where all favorite things live privileged,
kiss me on the forehead and wish me goodnight, switching off the light as you leave,
still mulling a twist or two in the plot which you clearly weren’t expecting.
Categories:
ladles, childhood, life, me,
Form:
Free verse
Growing up that age,we‘ve grown out
Of mothers bosom into streets,
With sown leather that bounces
Up and down among us,
Gone far and wide, swimming in lakes
Of Spirogyra green and tea brown water,
Caught the silvery tilapia and slippery heels as game,
And sold them for bread,
Self inflicted hungered, afflicted;
Though large ladles were waiting,
The rowdy rascal would returned
With impunity and stumped to their leftover;
And Shepherds echoed and neigh expressed
Our wandering out and about.
Now that we 've outgrown,
We have left such things that made a lad again,
And looked toward the future
When we would be father-like
To little ones,
We shall spit out and bellow nothing to naughty
While to them the beds they would lay,
And dose and dream of carbuncles, sapphire and crystal rocks,
Floating oarless in the breeze of aquamarine riches
And falling into bottomless abyss,
Till clock crow it is soon morning,
And woke with tears all stick up to faces,
Categories:
ladles, childhood
Form:
Free verse
Goodnight and good sleep little one
Off to bed, no tears to cry
Dream your dreams until dawn sun
This is an attempt at lullaby
My best I swear I'll try
I believe they start with falling cradles
Or mockingbirds that cannot sing
No guitars or drums so playing ladles
No diamonds, so brass will be your ring
How many sweet dreams could these bring....
So as you are hurtling down from high
Or trying to ignore an off key bird
Banging pots with utensils, not sure why
A looking glass has helped I've heard
But that also seems absurd
Lullabies seem sad and sometimes tragic
An Odd combination to allow
Maybe there should be more magic
So if you fall from a breaking bough
I promise I'll always catch you somehow
March 14, 2023
L words poetry contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Categories:
ladles, Lullaby, silly,
Form:
Quintain (English)
Brain strain – A kitchen adventure
Broken ladles scattered about the new granite countertops
Veins of years gone by, prehistoric earth tremblings, spotted composites
in a vast array of colors, wickedly smooth and hard as rock (go figure)
Silverware sings like wind chimes on the tile floor,
cast aside in frantic search…long drawers, endlessly hiding that utensil,
somewhere behind the egg slicer, yellow plastic (what would I do without it?)
Meat thermometer (that sounds nasty) Tupperware tops for what?
Plastic reminders of meals past, no longer fitting their
spaghetti sauce discolored partners, in assorted sizes (used now as makeshift cat food bowls)
Pots and pans, why is it always pots and pans, never pans and pots,
hell in alphabetical order it would be, who thinks up this stuff?
And then those damn lids that never stack (handles, who needs them?)
A blender, a mixer, a dicer, a juicer, a toaster and an apple peeler. An apple peeler?
Brownie tins shaped like a labyrinth, but look at all of those corners…chewy
Not good for the diet but make the perfect Christmas gift. (much more than an apple peeler)
There it is, finally, behind a 5 lb. bag of potatoes and the old Mr. Coffee machine,
tarnished silver, at least a hundred star patterned holes, three little worthless feet…my colander
The one I use to strain my brain, removing all of the bad stuff (so the only thought left is you)
4/6/17
Written for the Go Ahead…I Dare Ya!!! poetry contest
Sponsored by John Lawless
Categories:
ladles, imagination,
Form:
Free verse
I hear their idle chatter and wish that sound was optional.
A box checked in a menu, a simple click and forget.
The rapid dilation of my pupils brings me back.
Back to hypnotic aisles of temptation and necessity. A selection of the finest they say.
Right there see, on the cardboard, next to charts and columns of calories and strange
numbers I’d sooner forget.
But buy one get one free still gets me every time.
I stare intently at the dancing numbers until the man with the tie moves away.
Glossy pages shine brighter than the fruit racks they mirror,
Competing for importance in my wallet and my life
The magpie wins and the bananas will wait.
Half the magazines hawk five a day in rounded sans serif, bold against the background of a
chef’s haircut.
Maxims of bizarre cosmopolitan playboys and hustlers marked up at 3.99. Landscapes of
polished flesh glow beneath the loving airbrush of the paycheck. Competing for nuts at the
zoo.
A vanity fair for the hollow, shining in the fading light of a red top sunset.
Paraphrased blogs and condensed morsels of crude celebrity nudes for the I-Generation and
the remnants of New Labour and Thatcher’s Britain.
Anglers, caravans and 50 cent, half the demographic, half the price. Count me out.
I finger a few and find no real desire. The Internet offers this bilge up for free.
They’d all be nude and crapping on each other.
The great silicon toilet of humanity
Past freezers of long dead prisoners, pulped to perfection. Pigs in tubes and flat cow
concoctions.
Pancakes of vomit and fish dishes I won’t ever try. No time for it.
Frankenstein's monster behind glass slides.
Packets of sugar in various disguises. Cereal and chocolate, soft drinks and sauce dips.
Lattes and ladles, loofahs and loaves. The prattle returns through the shelving
I turn around the curries and there is the tie. Talking sport and hard drinking, women and
the weather. Looks me in the eye.
I turn before any interaction and feign interest in something, a scouring pad. Intricately
woven metal coils waste major concentration and he’s gone. Box checked, minimize and move on.
Everything shines in this weird three-quarter light, hypnotic. Confusing. Conscious of the
bottles ahead that I can’t ever touch. Seedy and appealing, puerile and appalling.
Something for everyone.
And nothing for me.
Categories:
ladles, computer-internet, funny, life, people,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Burnt orange, mahogany and deep yellow
Merging with emerald greens of pine trees
Coloring the ridges, mountains so mellow
They whisper inspiration into the breeze
They’re called the blue ridge mountains
During autumn, they go through transformation
Changing from their typical colors astounding
Into a vivid array of sunlight painted creation
As the scenery changes, the air turns chilly
It seems everything is adjusting to the season
All the chrysanthemums replace the bright lily
While the birds fly south with a good reason
The garden leaves start to dry into dead browns
I start to put away all my canning utensils and ladles
The vegetables have been prepared and died down
While the canned food resides on shelves and tables
The green grass that we’ve mown all last summer
Changes to a darker covering of dying, fallen leaves
Crunching beneath every footfall of the newcomer
As the past June, July and August do tend to grieve
Autumn answers the prayer for those who do love
To feel the nippy chill of a bright season in the air
It breathes a request to the Lord up above
For hope, faith and love that will always care
September 12, 2019
Fall Into Fall Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Categories:
ladles, autumn, inspiration, seasons,
Form:
Rhyme
pickle a paper and print paint playfully pointing pins
Knitting needles in a fish and chip shop is about as useful or as necessary as eating a soup with a spade. Dramatic are the arriving interludes of splashing drops of juice omitting from the clouds above. Circling is not just for dove it is also used by spotted leopards who never wear leotards anyway so never wave goodbye dressed in a bright pink tutu if you are otherwise engaged in deep conversation with a clown ship. Oh giant wrath from canned peas. Do you not understand that you are only allowed to speak when you are boiling? Yes. Boiling. Now good go to sleep. And stop banging. Bring no erratic iron to a visionary contemplation gathering at dusk. And into one melting pot there is always much lava so please wear a balaclava and smile over fifteen times at a flame. And wave. Wave. Go on wave. It is the grin from within a flamed fork that the beetle most admires. Very very proud species with a tale of tantric takeaways. Often a sideways dash off to a milder tent. And always ensuring that the levels of the ground in a swamp are correctly adjusted to reflect the size and the weight of all the passing wildebeest, hooked rhinos, hippopotami and the sponge cake. Right now go and drink eighteen ladles.of tea and make a donkey sound loudly. Hahah. Missionary mice making meat. Hahaha lettuce loving leaping linguini. And a peppered steak grin. Xxxx hypotenuse Z z z
Categories:
ladles, absence, allah, allusion, angel,
Form:
"mathew" 6: 12-13
“and forgive us our debts”
(not only does a sheep get 3 squares a day,
but it is also believed that if one begs the
sky enough, one’s problems will just
wash away---this is to be the subsequent
consequence of ALL humans following
suit & getting down on four legs, growing
their thick coats & chewing grass)
“as we forgive our debtors”
(as the sheep thinking that their problems
are solved by an imaginary listener in
an imaginary trailer park in the sky,
so do the sheep continue grazing with a
sort of “live and let live” mentality,
until they are picked off by hunters)
“and do not lead us into temptation”
(so, the same imaginary listener who resides
in that imaginary trailer park, who seemed
to be the one that all the sheep were
comfortably baaaaa-ing to, now is
something to be feared as well? perhaps
that which one feels the need to submit
the whole of their will to is the same
corrupted core inside that would come up
with such a ridiculous hoax to begin with,
as found in the schizophrenic comment
here in the command to oneself (a baaaaa
into the mirror, if you will)
“but deliver us from the evil one”
(the EVIL ONE? is not the concept of
evil just that which goes against the
simultaneous baaaaa of the herd in the
grassy field? was not the GOOD ONE
just told in the last line to “not lead us
into temptation,” thereby being the only
“one” which can do so? make sure when
getting the ladle of kool-aid dumped into
your dixie cup, that you ask if said
dumper is EVIL or GOOD…certainly at
that point it will make all the difference in
the world)
“for yours is the kingdom and the power
and the glory forever”
(there is no other imaginary listener, whose
two-faced multiple personalities, residing in
an imaginary trailer park in the sky, handing
out its ladles of kool-aid, whose overwhelming
passion could be heard any louder than that
which dwells within the very heads of the
already brainwashed sheep baaaaa-ing out
the rest of their days, dissatisfied with the
actual physical world around them &
waiting for the end of what they deem as
a great big thorn in their side---that is,
the rest of us who are not convinced, and
who are not baaaaa-ing with the rest of
em’)
“amen”
(right there, in a nutshell, the whole lie
itself was conjured up by “a man,” or
a few men---all who had way too much
time on their hands & a rather limited
imagination).
Categories:
ladles, life, evil,
Form:
Free verse